


Blood, Ink and Wine

by Ilovehighhats



Category: Taboo (TV 2017)
Genre: Bloodplay, F/M, How Do I Tag, I Was Drunk When I Wrote This, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Rough Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut, did i say smut?, just a fling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-09-20 08:26:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9482741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilovehighhats/pseuds/Ilovehighhats
Summary: "I will release you shortly, but in return I want you to turn around and consider carefully my entirely honest offer of a good fuck."Shameless PWP (is there any other kind?). Just because.





	1. Savage

**Author's Note:**

> I'm stuck writing my TDKR Bane/OC fic. Can't. Stand. Talia. Ugh…  
> And I happened to watch Taboo (because of course I did, come on), and guess what. I had a fit of laughter over a poem I used in my story. Byrons "The Corsair." It was actually published on February 1st, 1814. That's the year where our new favourite TV series starts. Coincidence?  
> Anyway, since Byronic tropes of incest, general debauchery and angst were already taken, I had an idea for this little piece. Just throwing it out there.  
> Let's see where episode 4 takes us tomorrow.
> 
> Also, I have read way too much Connie Brockway, Robin Schone and such...

James Keziah Delaney was not an easily shaken man.

He was ruthless. Unflinching in his convictions once he settled for an idea. Never shying away from truth, however difficult or repulsive.

He left the brothel in a hurry. Since his return to that wretched pit of humanity's asshole that was London, all day every day, during each and every hour of his existence he felt like he was surrounded by women. The thought manifested in a shiver along his spine, more often than not apprehensive more than exciting.

Women clawing on him, like talons ripping through his soul.

The Crow was always with him too, lurking in the shadows, beneath his eyelids, in dark alleyways while he strolled around the city.

Lately the feeling shifted to being surrounded by whores.

Like ones who occupied his warehouse at docks. Ones he saw for his own pleasure. Men and women selling themselves wholesale, from brothels through streets to quiet chambers of East India Company. Infuriating Lorna Bow selling her soul for few shillings each night at Drury Lane.

His own sister trading her dignity, their love, for peace of all things.

No, he won't think about them, any if them, not tonight. He had to focus on himself. He needed a woman now, however repulsive the inkling seemed to him right at this moment. Not a whore. A woman. One that wouldn’t know his name, nor care for it, nor ask for favours. One who would pass him on the street the day after without so much as a smile, a nod of recognition, a shrug.

He hailed a cab. Asked for Vauxhall Gardens.

Four shillings sixpence and he was admitted along with England's most fashionable to a place of leisure and pleasure. Cheap lanterns basked the grounds in magical shimmering light, masking crumbling paint on haphazardly put together pavilions. Everything here was just a shell hiding emptiness, pretending to be Maharajas palace instead of simple sheds. Untrue. Dishonest. Unnatural.

Open air coursed through lit and shaded walkways alike stealing away odour of heated bodies and whispers, and moans of pleasure.

James put on a simple black domino, a precaution more than necessity. Should anyone familiar with his broad frame come by they would be sure it was him… But the beauty of being here with even the most nominal covering on his face meant that there was at least a hint of ambiguity implied. If the Company, or Americans, or anyone wanted him dead it would be the perfect moment and place to strike. But they would have to reveal themselves here as well, a feat he did not anticipate happening tonight. After all, his idea to come to Vauxhall was rash and impulsive one.

He installed himself by the tree and waited, scanning the crowds.

An hour in he found his prey. She was easy to stalk, a third wheel, deadwood to her friends. Impoverished cousin, perhaps? A companion to a frivolous lady? He noticed her somber face among the throng of revellers, pale, sharp, cold, framed by dark hair murderously pinned at the back of her head. Dark skirt hid her figure well, but fashionably tight and long sleeves of spencer betrayed frailty of muscles he expected.

She trailed few paces behind the group, silent and absentminded. It was easy enough to tug her to the side, away from prying eyes, into comfortable darkness of his hiding place. Palm covering her mouth he clutched her close to his chest. She was frail indeed, all too malleable for his trained muscles, effortlessly immobilized with a steady brace and grip of his left arm.

“Now, stay calm,” he breathed right into her ear, low and sultry and sinful. “You did not seem to enjoy your night out. I wish to remedy that. However, I do not care for an unwilling partner. I will release you shortly, but in return I want you to turn around and consider carefully my entirely honest offer of a good fuck.”

He let her go, moved a step back. A gamble on his part, and admittedly a foolish one. She could scream. Run away. Gut him with a knife, if she knew her way around one. He felt an elongated thin shape along the back of her upper thigh when he held her. Indeed she bunched up her skirt and after a brief struggle pointed the blade forward, pivoting to face him fully.

“That was not nearly as fast as I thought it ought to be,” she observed mildly, eyeing the knife with disdain worthy of something much more than an inanimate object.

James noticed imprints of nails at the ball of her hand. He spread his arms a bit, empty palms upwards, turned slowly from side to side under intense scrutiny of her narrowed eyes.

“Yes or no, then?” he asked.

Shoulders straightening with a flinch, she frowned.

“I am not averse to your... merits, Sir, but I am not accustomed to fornicating out in the open.”

He cocked his head to the side an arrogant smirk stretching his lips.

“There is a first for everything.”

“Quite so,” she agreed. "I am not keen on being entertainment for voyeurs, Sir."

"I am not a 'sir'. I am just a man, and you are just a woman. Nothing more here, nothing less. Take my offer."

"How about this then. I will join you in, what you so amiably called, a good fuck but not here."

James sneered. So it was another high strung lady, too prim to admit her base needs honestly even before herself it seemed. Shame.

She shifted back, regret filling her eyes at the look on his face.

“I am not keen on being discovered _in flagranti delicto_ , or holding back, or keeping quiet,” she explained, fishing for something with her unoccupied hand plunged into little purse she had hanging from her wrist.

"Where, then?" he barked.

She flinched and the blade scratched at her wrist as she produced a dance card with tiny pencil attached. She scribbled fast, short words on an unoccupied page, tore it out with a swift stroke and handed it to him.

“Come here at two, if you still would like to follow on your offer.”

“No incentive?” he mocked.

Did he imagine dark stain growing on her sleeve?

“This is not a trade mister…” She trailed off expectantly.

He could be to her anyone he wanted to be.

“James. Just James.”

“Either you will be there, James, or I will pleasure myself to the memory of our short bout earlier.” She smiled.

He did too, when he finally took the paper, but not at her words. It was blood, he could smell it in the air. Nimbly he transferred paper to hold it with tips of his fingers, simultaneously grabbing her wrist with thumb and ring finger, exposing the gash.

She didn’t stop him as he bowed down, a mockery of a gentleman. He did not kiss her palm. Hot tongue thrust between torn fabric, gathering what little moisture was available before it seeped away. Muscles in her arm spasmed in shock, but she hold otherwise still. And quiet.

He straightened, aware of her gaze glued to his lips.

“Pleasure yourself to this.”

 

* * *

 

He looked at the paper for the hundredth time, and impatiently stretched his hand to hold it over a candle. It burned in seconds, bright flash in dim interior of a tavern. This whole idea was foolish. He should get back home. Another dose was what he needed, not a soft body begging to be ripped apart.

A nightcap and he would be on his merry way towards another day of duplicity and plotting.

Yet, he found himself in Mayfair, only a short hour later. He memorized the address, like he apparently did everything in his miserable existence. Every detail forever etched in his mind. Even when he was a bit under the weather, like now, he was thinking clearly. Always thinking clearly.

The garden gate was hidden well, but he specialized in finding and taking what was not his.

Carefully closing the iron grate, he heard a rustle of fabric to his side. His hand clutched on a delicate neck, pulse thumping underneath his palm. So very soft…

“So you have come,” she said when he let up his grip, never leaving her skin. She breathed in his scent, pensive frown ever present on her forehead.

“You smell of alcohol. Different than before. It was heavy perfume then, but I like it better now. It seems more honest.”

There was nothing honest about him, apart from what he had promised her.

A fountain had to be somewhere nearby, the water murmuring softly into the night. She led him through thick foliage to fake ruins, put together with ill fitted stones. His mind drifted unpleasantly fast to the memory of Zilpha sitting across his lap, dispassionate kiss performed solely as proof of her indifference.

No, not now.

“What is your name?” he asked, looking around.

“You may call me Sophia.”

Wisdom. Just what he needed. She seemed to lack it as well. A good match.

There were some blankets prepared on the ground, still folded, but she did not move towards them. Instead she unbuttoned her spencer jacket, slowly, deliberately. This one was different from the one she wore before, he noticed.

“What did you have in mind for me back at Vauxhall? Pinning me to fake ruins? Throwing me on the grass ‘like beasts in woods’ perhaps?“

“Perhaps.”

She was making him angry now. The sensation, grounding in its familiarity, helped him focus. The air was cold, but he was warmed up from the inside. The woman seemed to suffer the same condition. They disrobed, she methodically with a flirtatious flair to her practiced movements; he quickly, impatiently tugging constricting fabric away.

He basked in unhindered wonder he saw in her eyes, her mouth agape in awe.

She was beautiful, pale skin gleaming in the moonlight. Lithe but not wiry, definitely feminine. Unblemished. A stark contrast to his sun darkened body, littered with thick black lines. But she seemed to appreciate him just the way he was.

She took the palm he extended towards her, stepped closer. Cold fingers danced delicately over his chest, irritating him with the way she shifted coarse hair growing there. His blunt nails sunk in the supple flesh behind her hips. Surprised gasp was cut short as he pressed himself flush to the woman. Delicate skin on her neck was sweet under his tongue, so was her shoulder and collarbone.

He heard her sniff again, felt slightly unsure palm sneaking up his back.

“You smell like danger.”

If only she knew.

James shifted back a fraction, taking her injured wrist in his hand. He watched as she traced the path her limb travelled, all the way up to his lips.

The bite was cruel. He relished willingness with which she took the pain. Blood trickled slowly as he lapped at the wound, in his eagerness smearing the liquid down his chin. Sharp coppery taste was softened by velvety smoothness of the medium, undercut by unmistakeable savoury organic finish.

He flinched as she pressed on his bicep, exactly between the lines, deceptively brittle nail cutting through his skin like a razor.

“That is enough,” she whispered.

She was right, the gash on her wrist was overflowing slowly with colourless watery fluid.

It was James's turn now to to follow movement of her hand with curious gaze. Index finger carefully gathered his blood, then transferred it to her seashell pink lips. Cupid bow shaped mouth closed on the digit. James did not hide the interest he had in finding out how the sucking he observed now would feel on his cock.

“Quite enough of that, I agree,” he murmured.

She smiled, bloodstains on her lips nearly black in dim light of the moon.

He wanted to paint her whole body with swirls of darkness.

Alas, not tonight.

“Kneel,” he rasped.

She started shaking her head, but he sneaked his palm to the back of her neck. Caress was unexpected and subtle, only after a while followed by insistent press on her shoulder.

Slithering down she did not look into his eyes, focused instead on planes of skin and muscle before her. Making use of her lips she mapped his markings and scars. Once her knees touched the ground he let her obsess over the fresh wound on his abdomen. The skin there was raw and doubly sensitive, but she ghosted her dry lips over raised flesh, licked and inhaled in a hypnotic nuzzle.

James kept a hold on her neck, shifting his palm slightly higher, just under fine hair at her nape. He toyed with the idea of using her like this, but decided against. Dewy grass was cold against his knees as he joined her on the ground. Toes digging into easily yielding earth he put his hardening cock between her thighs, simultaneously angling her face up to his.

He swallowed her gasp of surprise, and then moans of pleasure. Licked into liquid heat of her mouth, tasting foul remnants of blood. Maybe it was his vile essence he sampled, maybe hers, he did not care. Neither of them did.

He promised her good fucking and was intent on delivering just that, especially now that he could feel her arousal moistening his shaft, tendons in her thighs taut, muscles hardened in an effort to guide his cock closer. He sat down on his heels, guided her to straddle him kneading on her buttocks.

Bites to her breasts blossomed immediately with rapidly darkening marks.

She hissed and shifted away, but he still held her hips so the movement resulted in a surprisingly graceful tumble down on her back. James looked at her, mesmerized for a short minute.

Long hair danced in the air as she fell, fanning in a glistening dark shadow on her shoulders and chest, pooling like a stain of blood on the grass at the back of her head. Her fingers dug into the moist soil, cording lean muscles of her arms and stomach. Slender neck was accentuated by rope of strain as her her head lolled to the side.

He had her on display.

“Stay as you are,” he commanded, thumbs deceptively gently circling her protruding hip bones.

It was easy to lift her a fraction with movement of his thighs, slide into her cunt without effort or resistance. The slickness he felt before was overwhelming now that it surrounded him completely. He moved back to sit, roughly pulling her closer.

Without any words, there was no need for those, she started moving. Soles of her feet dug deep into the grass, darkening wit dirt, same as her hands. James watched, enraptured in the way she impaled herself on his body, using him, letting him use her.

He could, he would, he wanted to bite into her soft stomach, open her up, bury his hands in her entrails. Sloppy, slick and hot, steaming in chilly air.

Alas, not tonight.

His more salacious desires overwhelmed his mind briefly. Another dose was imminent, but not just yet. Now he could simulate the rush with intoxication of quite a different type. Hands gripping her hips harder, pulling her in time with measured powerful surges of his body, he fucked her with abandon.

The woman moaned, throwing her head back exposed her vulnerable neck yet again, pressing up her chest she gave him an unobstructed view of her breasts bouncing rhythmically.

There was no uncertainty in his mind that she did not care for him as a person, his money, his connections, his mind or his soul. She used his body, his willingness to share it, with the same single minded focus he used hers with. A good fuck.

Yes, it was slowly shaping up to be one.

James smiled as their coupling grew more impatient, more needy. More true. Frantic. He grunted with each thrust, listened to soft moans from her in response. Soft, but not restrained. He was sure she would not be ashamed to scream. If only he gave her a reason to.

Alas, not tonight.

Slickness he felt around his cock in abundance was seeping out with his movements, the glide audible even despite their panting and moaning. She clenched around him and with last partly sane corner of his brain he slid out all the way.

Cold air hit him hard, but he welcomed it.

She narrowed her eyes and reached out one of her dirt stained palms. James lowered his face down to her pelvis holding her hips up to his lips, her whole body stretched in search of pleasure. She bit her lip when he licked her clit.

James hoped to see blood on her mouth once again.

He devoured her never taking his intense gaze off her face. Not even when she rubbed her fingers on his cheek, smearing dark stains on his sun kissed skin. Not even when he plunged two fingers deep into her cunt, making her release a loud, low groan through her teeth. Not even when she squealed, as he smeared her wetness beneath her cunt. Not even when he plunged his tongue into her cunt as his finger inched inside just below, separated only by a thin wall of tissue.  

He stretched her, her juices more than enough to moisten his ministrations, watching as she fought shame and surprise, overwhelmed by dark pleasure he gave her.

He spit down when he inserted second finger, appreciating the way she once again welcomed the pain. Her teeth gritted, brows furrowed, she bore down taking him in without complaint. James moved up, thrusting roughly and carelessly into her, his cock throbbing just over her weeping cunt. He kissed her hungrily, rewarding her efforts. Pulled his fingers away. Straightening back up he contemplated his options, decided to fuck into her cunt again. Confusion written across her face made him grin, an animalistic, disturbing leer.

He pulled out again, lined up to enter her other hole.

“Yes,” she hissed.

He pushed in slowly, but not really gently. Gentle sex was unpleasantness he wanted to save himself from as long as he could. His cock stretched her further than his fingers could, and he listened to her whining groans. Her nails dug at his knees, cutting through the excitement, sharp pangs of pain a distraction he did not mind. He moved, intoxicated, head lolling back with rapture.

He was alone in the sensation, but not for long.

The heat coiling up his spine started spreading to his stomach and abdomen again, betraying how little he needed to trip over the edge. He wanted to take her with him, to honour her courage and sacrifice and honesty. Briefly he allowed himself splaying his palm on her belly, imagining everything that was beneath. Then, his hand slid down, thumb smashing her clit, three fingers pressed firmly into her cunt, as he kept thrusting deep into her ass.

She moved with him now, moaned with him and raced towards the end with the same greediness. Their joined voices echoed into the night, an unmistakeable song of lust and fulfilment. Slap of skin meeting skin rose along with their quickening pants, the staccato of movement deafening in furious crescendo.

He watched her come apart, her glowing fair skin reddened with effort, lips bit raw, blackened fingers twisting her own nipples and tearing out grass.

Gritting his teeth he waited her out and then resumed his movements, only faster, and harder, and careless now. She whimpered, but did not utter a word of protest, even as his powerful thrusts rocked her hard against the ground. He snarled and doubled down, semen finally gushing in thick spurts deep inside her as he came, fighting the urge to bite into her, taste her blood again, make her his.  

In the end they spent a good while on the grass, James hovering over her on outstretched arms, panting wildly, coming down in degrees.

“My head is spinning,” she whispered.

Gentle shower drizzled down, making her shiver and shift away for the blankets. James laid on his back on the cool grass, arm thrown over his eyes.

He wanted a woman, and he got one.

He hoped he would forget the address and this night by the next time his need would rise again.

Alas, not tonight.  



	2. Virtuoso

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second verse, same as the first...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive rant at the end.

Ash was stinging his eyes. Or maybe tears. The yearning set in his bones such a long time ago but still he felt as if he could not bear another second apart.

Alas, not tonight.

Or maybe, not ever again.

The chemist spewed some nonsense about insanity caused by restraint in ejaculations, but James knew his particular brand of madness was caused by something else entirely. Repressed want was too innocent. He hungered to devour, Ouroboros incarnate, desperate to die and be born again, the cycle completing itself over infinity.

Unwashed but dressed, imprisoned in layers upon layers of fabric and lies, he set out into the night.

The gate was mocking in its familiarity.  He did not have an appointment. Neither did he have an idea which window, if any at all, belonged to the woman. What he had was crawling under his skin, a memory rotting his brain, an idea half formed waiting to be realized.

Path to the ruins was narrow and dark, but he found them with minimum effort. Thatch of grass under his feet did not differ from surrounding lawn, but he saw it as it was then. Raked with impatient fingers. Crushed under his knees.

The garden was compact but well put together,  winding paths lead him from one focal point to another, thick canopy shaded him from moonlight and prying eyes. He passed the fountain, a pond, two sculptures and a gazebo. The house at the end of the greenery was elegant, modern. Windows darkened with the exception of one. James stalked closer.

Did she manifest in an answer to his unspoken spells?

There she was, hunched over a table, scribbling furiously in the dim light of sole candle.

Preoccupied with his plan he neglected finding out who she was. After all, he was supposed to forget this address.

But he needed release again.

Pads of his fingers danced on the glass before his face.

She startled, knocking over inkwell, spilling pool of darkness over polished wood, down her delicate negligee. James waited.

The window opened with a creak.

“I want to take you again,” he stated simply, eyes wandering briefly behind her. Someone lit lamp in a corridor outside the room, shuffled slowly towards the door. “Do you want that too?”

She glanced back at the door as well gauging the time she had for an answer.

“Yes, but not tonight.”

The handle turned, rattled loudly when lock prevented the door from opening.

“Is everything alright my dear?”

“Do you want it?” James asked again, insistent tremor in his low growl.

“Yes, I'm writing, just spilled some ink,“ she shouted back towards the entrance.

The choice was clear, but seemed unnecessarily difficult.

Little involuntary reactions of her body told him what he wanted to know before she opened her lips to speak. Sucking on lower lip. Pupils dilated not only because of the dark. Nipples bumping out fabric on her chest, too noticeably to be the result solely of the cold.

“In an hour then,” she whispered finally.

James nodded.

He had an errand to run.

 

* * *

 

“Are you a spectre?” she asked when Jameses broad frame detached from shadows surrounding the ruins. “A revenant? Crow in human body, transformed by the moonlight for a few hours?”

His palm pressed her to rough stones, as he worked her nightdress up.

If only she knew… would she be as willing then?

“Does it matter who I am?”

She groped around his trousers too, stroking his member to hardness.

“Not at all.”

“Why not?”

The urge to pry rivalled his bloodthirsty yearning to crawl under dusky skin.

Don't think about Her, he told himself.

This woman was different in every way, and still something in her demeanor spoke to him with intensity he learned an eternity ago with his half sister. Primal, animalistic want.

Soft voice helped him resurface back to the present.

“The only thing that matters to me is what you can do, what you are willing to do and what you are doing.”

Maybe she was an enchantress herself? He smiled listening to the hypnotic whisper, pragmatic on the face of it, but trembling with undercurrent of lust strong enough to override logic and reason. He knew it all too well.

“There is nothing before or after that concerns me. Only here and now. “

What a sweet simplicity. Enviable. James wished his past let him look into the future in ways other than through stained, soiled skylight.

Nimble fingers ran through his hair, massaging briefly tender place on his scalp where he was hit. He pulled back with a hiss. The woman narrowed her eyes and circled his chin, clawing on his thick skin to bring their lips close. He let her, curious what she wanted.

Flattened tongue gathered ash and sweat from his cheek, hot trail and humid breath tracing slow path along skin. Before she reached his mouth James leaned down and bit hard at her neck. Teeth clamped strong enough to tempt him with possibilities.

She pressed up against him, moaning, squeezed hand that was still around his cock.

Marking on alabaster skin was stark and sharp, uneven imprint of his teeth brutally carved on delicate canvas. It reminded him of what he wanted to do tonight.

Unwrapping her from stained nightshirt was a matter of seconds. He pressed her forehead to the wall, running gentle hand up and down her back.

“Stand still.”

Hair clung to his rough palms like spiderweb on branches in autumn. Dark mass, parted neatly in half, cascaded over her shoulders to breasts. Slender back rose with round buttocks at the end, toned columns of thighs trembled slightly in nights chilly breeze.

With dry lips he pressed a kiss to nape of her neck, breathed in deeply sweet, clean scent and exhaled warm gust of air.

“How do I smell today?” he asked, smile present in his eyes, but absent from his voice.

“Angry.”

“Ahh.”

It surprised him that it showed. That she picked it up over mere minutes together. He was frustrated. Impatient. Hungry. Painting her would be a challenge to his self control. He had those constantly as of late. One more should not pose a problem, even if it would be difficult to compose himself.

James kneeled, produced a pot from pocket of his coat, and shucked the garment away.

The woman turned her head to the side, observing him calmly through lace of hair.

Smile tugged at his lips when he folded shirtsleeves over elbows. He itched to get naked, to release himself from confines of propriety and lies. But... The contrast was delicious. A savage fully clothed before a lady in nude. They were both just animals. Just human. There will be time still to discard every unnecessary piece of clothing.

But not before he completed his task.

The paste was still warm when he dipped two fingers in the pot, oily base held the right consistency, and when he pressed his digits to her back the line it produced was even. Dark in the moonlight, but he knew in bright light of day the paint would be only a shade more lighter. Reddish brown under the soot instead of perfect pitch black as it appeared in washed down bluish gleam of the night.

The glide was smooth. Tracing careful lines on her body, frequently refreshing the paste, he immersed himself in the act. Thick marks crisscrossed around her flanks, leaving the spine free of colour, flowing in waves down her buttocks and legs. He stood up, satisfied she reached her arm to allow him better angle to work. Forearms left unpainted, shoulders blackened with sloped pattern concentrating at her sternum she looked like one of his visions.

But she was real, unspoiled.

Relatively unspoiled, he thought with a smirk.

She watched him with curious, careful eyes as he delicately dotted rows of lines over her breasts.  He in turn observed muscles in her stomach contracting under his hands, too weak and soft to be any real obstacle to his work.

Smoothing bold lines over her hips he allowed himself a long, languid lick between her thighs. Her cunt was dripping, clit already engorged in anticipation, even though on the surface she seemed calm and composed.

She moaned, throwing her head back, held his head close with palms splayed on both sides of his face.

James looked up, enthralled with the way tendons in her neck splayed out over clavicles sharp as razors in pale moonlight. Waiting to be adorned.

He stood back up, put the pot in her hands.

Decorating her face felt more intimate than kissing her cunt seconds before. Using his pinky he traced bowed lines over high cheekbones, then on forehead to frame eyes boring into his own focused gaze. He thumbed thick black mark from underside of her nose, through mouth to chin and down her neck. He stopped just at the hollow, went back to smear similar scores from cheekbones to jaw and under her ears, hiding the bite he exacted on her earlier.

Her breath, quickened and deep, hitched when he nudged one soft earlobe, betraying her sensitivity. It was easy to lean in, lick the shell, pant a quick humid breath over it, let her grasp shirt bundled over his biceps in an effort to bring him closer.

“Stay still,” he mocked, keeping far enough not to ruin his handiwork.

Quickly finishing marks on her upper body, he kneeled again to complete the design with last sure lines over her legs. His fingers slipped on inner walls of her thighs, smearing the paste in uneven smudges. Her juices flowed nearly down to her knees. Abandoning his previous plan, guided simple straight geometrical design on the upper and outer parts of her legs.

Then he stood up to admire.

She let him turn her around, gathering her hair with shaking hands, displaying round breasts unashamedly. James walked slowly, taking off his shirt and unbuckling belt with sharp, steady movements.

“I wish I could see your work,” she whispered.

It would be marvellous to immortalize it. Alas, sketching her likeness was the last thing he had in mind right now.

“I want you on your hands and knees,” he rasped, toeing boots off his feet. Lust coursed through him, echo of evening past, strong with desire to find release, completion imminent. Minutes away. “Like beasts in woods and caves,” he repeated the quote she brought up last time.

She laughed a short and a bit breathless sound, unmistakably feminine.

“Fuck me like this, if you want, but I still would like to see you. And myself. I have an idea, but it would require going to the house.”

Why the hell not, he thought.

“Lead the way.”

What she meant was obvious and he did not mind, welcomed the suggestion in fact.

Walk through the garden was a treat in its own right. He still had his trousers on, but bare chested and with bare feet he felt at ease. The woman however practically glided over the grass, sure of herself as if in the best of gowns.

He wondered why was she so unafraid of occupants of the house. Who was the person he heard earlier? Why there was no regret when she spilled ink over desk and carpet and floor?

Civilized part of him wanted to know, wanted to pin those details onto the image of her he had in his mind. What kind of woman fucked a stranger? What kind of woman let a man do the things he have done, without a word in between, taking everything so willingly?

They entered through the library, silently scaled dark corridor, climbed elaborate stairs, then with another corridor, bright in the night thanks to extensive windows on one side, finally reached massive door.

Master suite.

“The lawful owner of this house is absent,” she affirmed James, unspoken questions visible in the tense slope of his shoulders.

The passage opened as if the wood weighed nothing at all, hinting at craftsmanship poured into creation of the entryway. There was a small parlor, terrace overlooking the garden on one side, twin doors opposite each other on their left and right. She turned to the right.

Bedroom was elegantly furnished, without unnecessary opulence. Right away she went to side, gesturing for James to follow. Boudoir equipped with full length standing mirror.

“Bring it to the window.”

She went back and stood on thick carpet by the bed, showing him which place she had in mind.

Pride swelled in his chest when he saw the look of admiration on her face. Soon it would be replaced with desire, contorted with pleasure and pain. For a fleeting while she was angelic, softly smiling covered in intricate markings the symbolism she did not understand.  

He knew, and that was enough.

The smile changed when she turned to face him, sinking gracefully to her knees. And then a short glance and she folded her chest to the floor, bodyweight resting on elbows, palms stretched towards his feet.

Beautiful.

The position brought out lines on her skin even more. He circled her on steady legs, untying his trousers, pushing them down when he reached her back. Crooked knife slid silently beneath the fabric, easily forgotten in the sight he had before him.

Joining her on the floor James turned his head to look. Their eyes met on silvered plane of glass, immediately jumped away scorched with intensity that belonged to better acquaintances. Both appreciated dark straits and lines stretching over their bodies.

A sight only for their eyes, only tonight.

Without averting his gaze this time James sneaked his fingers up her thigh, the delicate underside wet still. Sigh escaped her lips, back arched expectantly ready to take him in, chest heaved with heavy breathing.

Breach into her body was electrifying, as if current was running over their skin, joining them in more places than just at juncture of their hips. James smeared dark lines with his palms when he gripped her and forced even closer, then backed up, and pressed against her again, and again, and again, the momentum steady but not languid at all.

She gasped, not in pleasure yet, filled up to the brink, at his mercy.

Fucking her like this was unsettlingly close to what he did with Zilpha, and the similarity stoked his need higher.

The woman beneath him braced her knees on the carpet, thrusts undoubtedly leaving burns on her too soft skin. Skin, that soiled with smudged paste was losing its ethereal paleness in favour of smoky light brown. Dark hair spilled over polished wood, when she desperately tried to grasp anything that would help her ground herself enough to participate more actively.

“Are you not content with what I am giving you?” James growled, never stopping his thrusts.

Hunger built inside his gut, the one most difficult to state.

“Are you content with just taking?” she replied, voice hitching in the middle of the sentence with his angry shove.

He was not.

Stilling rooted deep inside her cunt he reached to rope her hair around one palm, forcing her up flush to his chest.

“What do you have to give that I cannot take myself?”

She could not respond straight away, distracted with licks at her neck, marring near perfect lines and destroying her further.

“My willingness is something you might remember favorably.”

“Is that all?”

He left her, moved up to sit on the bed.

The woman composed herself quickly, but not completely. Both her lips were reddened and glistening, breath all the while faster and heavier than it should be.

James hunched down watching her, his eyes widening slightly when she reached for his knife. He straightened, let her climb his lap.

Without preamble she slipped his girth inside herself, whimpered as it stretched her walls under different angle than before. Comforter darkened with paint crumbling from her skin where she pressed against it.

“What you need the knife for?”

Wolfish smile would be more appropriate on him, he thought, as she leaned in moving her hips, and kissed him soundly. Teeth and tongue and saliva, heavy with promise of more than just a fuck.

James leaned back, watching her slither up and down his cock. Too slowly, too gently.

Blade glistened in the moonlight when she raised it with a smirk. It cut into her wrist, not the one he drunk from last time, making similar incision. Diagonal wound was shallow, but still it gushed with warm blood, dripping with fast trickle down his stomach and chest.

She pressed him back to the bed when he moved to rise. Mesmerized with her actions, he let her stop him.

Small pink tongue gathered some of the liquid, and she smeared it lightly on her lips, let it flow down her neck and breasts, pool in her belly and trickle to the lips of her cunt. Only then she eased the pressure, granting him passage to hungrily latch onto the cut.

James moaned, his cock hardening further at the smell and feel, and above all taste. Sensations flooded his brain, everything real and intense, now, here, palpable and ripe.

“Look,” she whispered, or maybe he imagined it, drunk on blood and sex.

His beard was grisly, hair in damp spikes over gore covered mouth and teeth. Towering over her fragile back he looked feral. His palms gripped her buttocks so hard the indents of his fingers were shadowed. Still he had no trouble focusing on the detail she was staring at. Her head was bent to the side and back, slender arm hooked around his neck for support. Hair spilled like wisps of dark smoke down her spine, blending into the markings, sticking to bloodstained skin. Eyes were centered lower still.

Sinful and innocent at the same time. Depraved, natural and enthralling.

James watched with her the way his girth peeked in and out of her body, the stretch of her cunt, muscles twitching in his tattooed thighs and swaying of her hips.

All of a sudden, slow was the way to go.

Nothing was gentle in the way he pressed her close, made her moan with wet tongue gliding obscenely under delicate shell of her ear. Nor in her greedy movements atop of him, concentrated solely on her pleasure, taking from him with abandon everything he was willing to give and more. But they were unhurried. Sheen of sweat slicked their bodies from exertion, smell of arousal clung to their skin along with metallic fragrance of blood.

Would it be possible to drown in pleasure like this, unconcerned over past and future?

Waves of rapture threatened to spill, filled Jameses throat with growls, burning like gulping too much saltwater. He would be glad to let the water take him now, flowing on the surface of his mind as he was, barely able to remember anything but the friction and glide, the weight of a woman on his thighs, soft body under his fingertips.

The knife was forgotten beside them.

It would be so easy to fly the tip over her soft stomach, let the floodgates open to the waterfall of red. Push his hands under filigree ribcage, catching heart fluttering fast like butterfly wings.

He moaned, the desire burning beneath his eyelids, the ache to rip and bite heavy with a snarl scratching his throat.

Still, the pace remained restrained, keeping the precarious balance of his sanity and want in check.

“More,” she whimpered, “I need more.”

Teeth clamped deliciously over his neck, insistent tongue stroked him along with hungry lips. Mouth that would be perfect over his cock latched onto his maw. Beard must have scratched her, but she seemed drunk, seeking friction and sensations more intense than what was already given.

A twist and surge, and her back pressed into soft linen, bed creaking as James covered her body with his. Simple and effective, he never stopped moving, speeding up after he managed to straddle her hips in turn, his cock squished with her joined thighs. Every shove nudging her clit, every thrust pressing into her walls, nearly falling out on backstroke, stretching her opening anew with a pop everytime he pushed on again.

Mindless, he reached to her neck.

Vibrations from her moans caressed his palm, nails bit into forearm, cunt gripped him impossibly tighter when he squeezed. On and on he kept on thrusting and holding her throat, never cutting off her air but threatening all the same.

He laughed into her mouth when she came, kissing her through seizure like orgasm, relishing mad racing of her pulse, one he could feel both on his cock and beneath his hand.

His own release was almost an afterthought, satisfaction spilling in his bones, finally, when he slid out and roughly stroked himself over her breasts.

Why did he forget about them before?

Next time, he thought, and immediately it sobered him back to reality.

Mirror was unkind when he looked himself over sitting on the edge of the bed, panting still, fighting urge to lay down and sleep.

There would be no next time. Even the first should not have happened, the second a moment of insanity stolen thanks to his weakened will.

How difficult could it be to convince himself it was all just a dream, a fantasy, escape for his mind from the unending torment of yearning he felt for years? Eternity stretched in his memory from the last time he felt this carefree, from the last time he was this careless. Nothing good ever followed.

The woman shifted, whimpering over tenderness in her core. Or maybe he just imagined it. Her taste still lingered on his lips.

Time to go.

He did not ask what would the staff think of stains on the bed and carpet, about the ruckus they made, about consequences she might face later.

None of that mattered to him.

He watched her for a minute, curled in white sheets,dark pool of flesh in between soft linen dotted still with smeared soot and blood.

“Do not come here anymore.”

He nodded. The instinct to protect herself surfaced too late, but still early enough for them to part ways without any real harm done.

People around him deserved what was coming.

He best left her alone.

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I put on Taboo episode 4 again on yesterday evening. Specifically the dream sequence part. There was something not quite right, but I couldn't rewind it the first time I watched, so it kept nagging me, an itch creeping up on you until you practically have to claw at your skin instead of simply scratching.  
> Anyway, I know what it was, and why it disturbed me so much. You see, the way this show is told, written and cut gives me the impression that there is more than only one layer beneath what meets the eye. We have ghosts, people obsess over them in fact, but who remembers still how James wept when he discovered glass beads and shackles in the cargo of his ship? Why? The apparitions during scene at the morgue in episode 1. Why? His dream at the beginning of episode 4, remarks in episode 3 about the sign his mother carved being the same as the one he has on his body. The very same one we saw earlier carved by Jameses hand back at the ship. Why an African symbol is used by Native American?  
> My theory is as follows - James is exacting revenge on EIC for human trafficking. The same his mother was a part of and later he himself (possibly).  
> This is his most important goal, not money gained this way or another on Nootka Sound.  
> We know he was one of soldiers /officers of EIC aboard slave ship, but let's entertain the idea that after the ship sunk James might have been a victim of the same movement he once enforced himself. Since he was absent for 12 years A LOT could have happened.  
> How did he acquire uncut diamonds?  
> But back to episode 4 dream sequence rant. I was disturbed because James was present in Zilpha’s fantasy/nightmare, but he looked shocked or surprised rather than predatory as one might expect. Later he tells her - I could come more often but I spare you. Well, but was it him fucking Zilpha? Maybe. Maybe not. I couldn't tell.  
> Anyway, the thing that really disturbed me in all this is the turn towards the metaphysical. Mystic and occult. Ugh. As I've said before, ghosts are there from the beginning, but until now I saw them as manifestations of Delaney's inner turmoil, memories eating him up from within. I thought he was consciously shaping his public persona, feeding rumors as it suited him, all in pursuit of a bigger goal. Cold calculation, meticulous preparation, flawless execution of a brilliant plan. (Bane much? Heheh)  
> I even suspected Zilpha of being the actual brain of the operation, planting James as decoy. Well.  
> It seems I was mistaken on all accounts. Delaney is a shaman, really talks with the dead and performs magic tricks all the time.  
> As a lover of logic and science I'm always disappointed when characters turn to magic. Seems lazy.  
> I will watch on, hoping it was all some kind of clever ruse.  
> Although it is worth mentioning the Gothic mysticism would play brilliantly with the regency period. After all it was in early XIX when Gothic novel came to life with one of the most captivating stories - Mary Shelley’s “Frankenstein or the Modern Prometheus. “  
> Wikipedia says “Castle of Otranto “ is first Gothic novel, and that may as well be if you look at the subject chronologically. Have you ever heard of it before though?  
> (jk, if that wasn't clear enough)
> 
>  
> 
> Why does he keep playing with the watch all the time, too?


	3. Bacchante

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rain, booze and dancing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, I'm done. It's a bit fragmented, but that was intentional, to invoke how I imagine James operates. At least in those last moments of (relative) calm before the storm.

* * *

* * *

  
Forbidden.

So many things were labelled that for him. So many people. So many feelings.

Gossamer thread of lies forced upon him by the society, so called polite society, in fact. Restraining like a netting, giving glimpses of freedom, but forcing his limbs to contort, stay restricted, twisted and hidden away. 

He never gave them any heed anyway, words burying truth over what he knew was right. To him.

But now he had subjected his own desires to a taboo. Banned his memories from resurfacing. 

As if it ever would have worked.

Brandy did not help his restlessness. Thirst that gripped him could not be quenched, only momentarily forgotten at the best of times. Blood sang in his veins with yearning he never really could satisfy. 

He wanted.

Always something was amiss, always details unclear, always wishes unavailable to grant and realize. One more to the list.

He was foolish for a while, but forgetting a stranger was easy. Should be easy. Would be easy, if only his brain would stop festering, remembering, rotting.

The ball was tiring. He amused himself watching Lorna’s anticipation and giddiness at first. Charming, lovely, naive girl. So honest in her desire to please, to save. So consumed by dreams, she did nothing to shield her soul, barren before him like a journal set carelessly on a bedside table. So eager to oblige him, to make her claim on part of his life at the very least. 

Foolish.

But then again they all were fools. Flies trapped in spider's web, unaware of impending doom crawling closer, consumed with menial task of trashing in sticky embrace of a deadly trap. James wished hotly his plan would have let him deal with Geary, repulsive insect that the man has been. Unhinged, seemingly like the rest of them, but unaware of it, therefore vulnerable. Victim of his fears and vices, hiding both until they overflowed, surfacing with a scene no one wanted to be a part of.    

In bleak light of day, soft and moist, sifted through veil of mist, everything seemed much simpler. Restless night sharpened James’s gaze, and he saw clearly his assets. Geary, alive still, a marionette to Zilpha, Company, Crown and himself. Lorna, an ally loyal like a dog, with the same perilous affinity to trust, be exploited, used and abused. Atticus and his men, silent, buyable, easy to guide. Brace, the vault of secrets, moving piece of furniture, irreversibly grown into fibres of the house and James's memories. 

Gears were in motion, the machine worked, even pebbles surfacing here and there could not hinder crushing movements of iron willed revenge racing towards London.

Soon.

 

oOo

 

The want crushed his ribs, forcing lungs to expand in panicked short bursts.

Tears streamed down his cheeks, mingling with soot and spilled brandy.

Letters burned with bright flashes, momentarily turning into filigree like effigies, mementos of feelings, destroyed easily with the slightest breeze.

And then there was Lorna, infatuated little bird, frail and brave, curious and unwise. She tried to be snarky and bitter, to no avail. Hair like richest honey, her soul just as sweet. Even spike of stiletto she brandished was not enough to put out her balmy influence. 

Having someone worry for him was unfamiliar. Amusing. Zilpha never worried explicitly about him. About them, maybe, but never softly and sappily like Lorna. She rubbed off on him, the drop wearing out a stone, the mite gnawing on a stalk. Small, inconsequential cracks were adding up and he felt himself bursting at the seams.

There was a tribe in New Holland that threw babies into fire. Not to be killed, but to harden them. Mothers, aunts and sisters would dig a pit, put hot coals inside, some straw maybe, and then they would hold the baby in the heat. To make it healthy. To teach it pain is temporary, and cries never help. You have to endure.

No one can hear your cries in water.

The memory resurfaced frequently, unwelcome. Disturbed little certainty he had in his throbbing mind. Did his mother try to do what Brace accused her of? For all his knowledge, he understood little. James on the other hand lacked data. Mute leading the deaf. They saw both the same world, but understood it very differently. 

Why did he always see her from distance, like from the shore, at least at first? Was she truly deranged or just perceived as such? 

They all had insanity festering somewhere deep inside their fevered brains.

Excursion to Bedlam brought more questions. James looked and investigated, and rode, and supervised, but the restlessness never abated.

Full moon shone brightly, bringing back memories of nights past, so many of them. All vivid. Some painful. The latest achingly sweet.

Wisdom.

Contrary to his visions, flashbacks and memories, echo of woman from the garden creeped unto him slowly. With the impression of moonlight, leaves rustling in the breeze to his ears like sheets sliding on the bed. Blood black in the night, like the ink marring pale skin. Intoxication clouding his reason.

Mindless.

Respite from thinking sounded more desirable than anything now. Overheating brain supplied instantly every shred of information James might need. The address. Shape of the gate. Structure of the house. Trinkets he saw on shelves. Paintings on walls. 

It would be so very easy to go back and take again.

Helga was right. He needed a ship, and a good fuck, and to lay off the booze.

His legs carried him seemingly of their own accord, swiftly and precisely navigating muddy stretch of London thoroughfare.

Out front the building was stately. Massive and solid, everything a good Englishman could have desired. Respectful. Well-kept. Neat.

Like everything in this wretched city, hiding rot under shiny surface.

He observed, an unmoving figure rooted to the ground, A spectre haunting occupants of the house in the bright light of day. Shameless.

Waiting was rewarded when a cab stopped at the curb. She emerged, proper and humble. Dark skirts barely adorned, every single hair in place, spine like an iron rod, straight and seemingly unable to bend. James remembered concave curve, sweet dimples at the base, succulent swaying. Everyone showed to the world an edited version. A polite blank face. 

But he knew her true self, even if her name was still a mystery. Not for long now.

She paid the cabby and started towards the entrance.

Looked right at James, at the opposite side of the street.

Her gaze slid through him, uninterested, and fell back before her.

Not a single curtain moved after she had gone in.

Intoxication from the alcohol wore off, and James convinced himself the burning acidic taste in his mouth was the result of his drinking. He was not disappointed.

 

oOo

 

The ritual sang to him with promise of silencing voices in his head. At least for a little while. Wading into water he willed the tension away. Cold liquid soothed overheated skin on his face, neck and chest. One, two, three slashes. Dip down. Again.

Crow appeared out of nowhere, wrestling him deeper with insubstantial palms. No one but him could hear the silent scream under stagnant surface of the water. The boy who watched would never know what or why happened. If James drowned, like he did not drown dozens times before, no one would know why it happened. 

A sob like gasp was all he managed when finally she let him resurface. 

A warning? A plea? A curse?

Too much questions.  

He was tired. Taut as a string, vibrating in ever higher registers, faster and faster into impossible planes.

 

oOo

 

He waited to see Zilpha’s old self back. Primal and proud. Never did he expect to actually see her on that very night.

Beautiful creature, luminescent with droplets of rain glistening in the moonlight.

She was excited with thrill of the kill, energy still visible in nervous fluttering of fingers, dancing in search of purchase. A blade, perhaps? Muscled shoulders to grab onto?

No longer was he a boy that left London a decade ago. Even though both he and Zilpha jumped head first into their old habits; back and forth, teasing, tempting, seducing, luring; despite all that it was far from enough. The chase was intoxicating, even more so than when they were adolescents because of rumours, palpable peril looming over their heads, Geary lurking in shadowed corners. 

That feeling he knew so well... No, not sinking; dropping, falling, slithering away...

They used to be one body, one mind and one soul. Now he felt as if her head was shattered to pieces during his absence and never really grew back together. Elusive peace was out of his grasp, and she needed exactly that. She wanted nothing more than to settle down and be left alone. She was waiting for years for an opportunity, for someone to provide for her the calm she never knew.

James however, would never be satisfied.

 

oOo

 

The day was damp and cold, and grey. Rain drizzled on and off, picking up pace sometimes to drum on the rim of his top hat. James welcomed it, with emptying streets and muddy pathways free for his striking white steed. He was in no hurry, but freedom to ride at his own pace was always welcome, if barely ever possible in a city like London. 

Gates to Bedlam opened before him with squeal of tired hinges, and he hid his apprehension, fleeting but always present in first few seconds there. It was seeping out of the stones, soaked up along with rain and tears in the ground. 

The gatekeeper twitched when James noted the fire, even though his voice was soft. 

Atticus left, and James sat again between barrels full of death, flicking flint, staring into the past.

Erratic steps thudded in the corridor.

“Mister Delaney, there is a woman.”

James smiled softly. Wasn’t there always a woman somewhere. A mother, sister, daughter… Following the gatekeeper he listened to his hushed report. Another visitor, apparently, at the most inopportune moment. She stood by the graves outside the stone walls. Fresh and bright wreath was a stark contrast to overwhelming bleakness around. 

James narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

“Did she come alone?”

“I don’t know, haven’t noticed, Sir.”

He didn’t listen, already on his way towards her.

“A tour of the grounds for the lady?” he called out, mockery dripping from beneath his hat along with still falling rain. 

She raised her head, and turned veiled face towards him. He could see her shock even from behind grey muslin.

“James.”

“Sophia.”

“That is not my name.”

“Ah, how unfortunate. You graced me with your body more generously than with the truth.”

“Why are you here?”

“I came to ask you the exact same thing.” Unceremoniously he gripped her arm and pulled, not waiting for her response. “Come.”

What made him bring her inside? 

He watched as she looked around, shivering. Her eyes roamed around the room, taking in chains, barrels, stripped beds and uneven walls. 

“Why are you here?”

“Because you led me inside against my will.”

Gripping her hair he forced her head back, moved so close their bodies joined and lips brushed, veil trapped between them.

“Why have you come to Bedlam?”

“To visit ghosts,” she whispered. “I never come inside, always leave flowers at the grave and go my way.” Her eyes searched his. “Why have you brought me here?”

“I am not sure,” he admitted.

The screams calmed, drowned in swooshing hum of the rain and pleasant fragrance of warm body pressed close. He never saw her in daylight, such as it was, before.

“Drink with me,” he blurted out. 

Scoff was his only answer, but James already turned and reached for a bottle he left there before. Chugging a healthy swig he closed his eyes. A tug at the bottom of the bottle had him swallow and grunt.

She gingerly took a sip, frowning at the bottle.

“Potent.”

He grunted again. 

Somehow they ended side by side, backs to the wall, sharing the bottle between themselves with chilled fingers. Slosh of water outside never stopped. 

“You know they keep women here on the grounds of them being nymphomaniac.“ She whispered, head angled back uncomfortably, looking at uneven ceiling.

He drained what was left of the brandy and mirrored her posture, grunting in affirmation. 

“Is it wrong that I like fucking?”

“I like fucking too,” he supplied, smirk tugging at his lips. 

“But man can do far more things than woman could before he would be admitted in an asylum.”

“I was called insane once, and then I learnt it was only my nature, misunderstood.“ The words escaped him before he realized. Buzz was starting to wear off, and he grunted again, pushing away from the wall and stretching a hand out to the woman. “And I also learnt to fuck them all, and what they think. Come.”

“I want to get drunk.”

He nodded. That was his plan.

“Come.”

 

oOo

 

Tavern was filthy and rowdy. Patina of soot and grime stuck to the walls and beams, giving everything the same sullen, eerie air as the weather outside. Bleak and forlorn. James took a room, ordered food and drink and chased away the shiver at the back of his neck telling him he was looked at. Of course he would be. Patrons of this establishment were eyes and ears of whoever paid more.

Luckily, these days it was probably Atticus. 

Brandy they got was poor quality, but it got the job done. James idly poked cold cuts with a knife, draining his third glass.

“You're behind,“ he noted replenishing his drink.

“I'm not racing you.”

The voices of the dead were muted and faces blurred, details swimming in the distance so much he didn't see anything beside the table and room they were in. 

Someone fiddled on violin downstairs, a lively gypsy tune. 

The woman smiled devilishly. Giggled. 

He knew where that led. 

“I'm not dancing,” he hurried, leaning back in the chair with a defiant air. 

She downed contents of her glass in one go and reached out for more. 

“I'm not asking you to.”

He traced with his eyes her nimble fingers unbuttoning the dress. Hips already swaying along the tune. James’ fingers tapped the table. Despite himself, he found he was smiling slightly at her bright eagerness.  

Dress shucked, she proceeded taking pins out of her hair. One after another stacked them neatly on the table, taking the opportunity to drink another glass. 

The song ended.

James frowned, snarl escaping his lips. Chair scraped on the wooden floor when he heavily shifted it back, rising swiftly with a purposeful glint in his eyes. Before he reached the door the tune resumed, faster and accompanied by another player. 

When he turned back, she was swaying to the music, hands bending in fluid lines, graciously swimming through the air. Back to the door he watched her dancing. The start was tentative and well thought, measured for aesthetics. Tune kept accelerating its pace, so she matched it, hips and legs jutting more prominently, palms gripping her shift. He saw her body peeking from behind thin linen, remembered how it felt under his fingertips.  

His ears were full of trilling violins and the woman's rugged breath. Her feet beat the staccato of the tune on the floor, frantic and insistent.

She smiled, eyes closed, lost in twirling and tapping. 

He wanted her. Imagined how she would look dancing around the bonfire, adorned in nothing but paint, feathers, flowers and beads. 

Illicit meetings in the night left him with an appetite for more. Thick saliva welled in his mouth, sweet and warm. 

Before he noticed she was pivoting towards him, laughing, hands gripping lapels of his shirt. 

He wanted so much more than only a fuck.

Warmth was the first thing he noticed, her body burning up from the exercise. Insistent tongue invaded his mouth, and he growled, not inclined to let her win dominance. Touch of wet muscle, glide of slickened roughness were intoxicating. He felt every nerve spark with readiness to take more. To go further. Her straight teeth clamped on his lower lip, and she sucked, rubbed her cheek on short hair on the side of his mouth. James took the opportunity to smell her neck, to get drunk on now familiar fragrance of irises. Once alien, now it made his cock swell, memories associated with it intense and pleasant. Almost automatically his hands worked on lace of her short stays, making quick work of opening them. His waistcoat and shirt followed, and he pushed with his body, hands occupied with opening his trousers, to back her onto the bed. 

“Take it off,” he commanded, jerking his head at her shift.

Hips moving to the melody of still playing violins, she shimmied her body higher on coarse covers. White fabric moved tantalizingly up, over her knees, exposing hair at the nape of her legs, flat stomach quivering with anticipation.

James kneeled at her feet, parted her thighs with his palms hooked at the inner side of them. Sliding smoothly up, past her hips to fill with pliable mounds of her breasts. He sucked on the underside, relishing velvety caress of her skin stroking his sides, their bodies perfectly aligned. He bore down, pressing with his abdomen on her clit, teasing her with what was to come.

For now, he was intent on feasting on her chest, even though she gyrated under him, humming to the song drifting up from downstairs, digging nails into his scalp, both hands cradling his face.

With dry lips he stroked her nipples, hardened and rosy pink with excitement. Caress was tingling and all too vague, but it made her moan all the same. He felt her muscles contract, as she raised her head, transferring her grip to his arm and back of his neck.

“Lick,” she demanded.

James looked her in the eyes as he did, flat expanse of his tongue stroking skin around apex of her breast. His mouth parted and smile revealed uneven teeth, ready to bite. His expression softened when he felt thumb sliding down his upper lip, catching slightly on coarse hair. He knew the way her nostrils flared, learned what it meant. His palms knew how to twist her nipples between pads of his fingers to make her look away and squirm.

He was floating, warmed by kind rays of sun, drifting lazily, on ocean of bliss.

One movement up, and he was back to kissing her, greedily plunging into moist cavern of her mouth, taking his liberties. 

She moaned and hitched her legs higher, opening herself wider. Wanton.

James groaned at the feel of her knuckles grazing his stomach, muscles tensing regularly with the movement of his loins. She gripped him, steadily, and stroked, guiding his cock to her moist cunt.

He felt every inch of her, clenching around him, wet and hot, searing him with pleasure. Their breaths mingled, and bodies moved as one. Forward and back. Moans joined in a song of need. Louder and longer with every thrust. Sweat pooled in crevices, gluing them impossibly together, smoothing the glide of greedy hands groping and caressing.

James moved his head to the side, pressed his forehead to damp hair spilled on the bed. He remembered how mesmerizing they were on that first night, pooling like liquid shadow in the moonlight. Now they filled his nostrils with more of that delicate flowery fragrance, as his ear was caressed with hot, impatient breaths.

“Close,” she warned, strangled and desperate. Perfect.

He moved both palms to her hips and held her, bearing on her pliable frame with all his weight, grunting and growling and forcing every little bit of arousal to her lips.

The violins must have stopped because she bit on his shoulder, propelling him higher with sharp stab of pain, covered his mouth with her palm. Vaguely he realized the bed was loud enough to betray their activities anyway. Who the fuck cared. 

Critical point was at his fingertips, and with last sane part of his brain, he smashed his hand to her pelvis, coaxing her orgasm through last, brutal thrusts. 

He slowed down and watched her as he came, riding her last tremors like gentle waves of the sea.

A castaway on a raft, surrounded by warmth, content with the moment he was in.

Tiredly he slid to the side, heaving breath escaping him in quick pants.

Only after he realized he mimicked his bout with Zilpha. He dared not think about her now, afraid that he forgotten so easily.

“What now?” he asked, surprising himself. The meaning behind his words eluded him, but desire that propelled them was clear.

“I will go back home and take a nice bath, and dress in clean clothes, and try to forget this afternoon ever happened. Like I try to forget those two nights that never happened,” she whispered.

James felt her fingers resting lightly at his jugular, feeling the movement of his swallow. He turned his head to watch her.

“I imagine you’re my sister, when I fuck you,” he lied. 

She only smiled in return, not looking up, tracing his tattoos and scars. 

He made sure she was safely delivered back to her stately home, his cab trailing hers through the downpour. She refused protection against rain, letting the water soak through her clothes, draining the fabric, flattening hair that peeked above her neck to creamy skin. Hiding evidence of their dalliance.

Few steps she needed to take were slow and measured. Spin of her hat indicated she looked to the side. James imagined, she was searching for him behind the curtain of the rain.

It wasn’t easy, to go away this time.

 

* * *

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, I'm done with Delaney.  
> At least, until season 2!
> 
> I don’t believe Zilpha really killed herself too. If and when I see the body, maybe then. Falling into water, even in skirts, does not mean drowning. ;) But we will see.


	4. Mnemosyne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blame the beer (no brandy for me, and I ran out of rum). It’s late. I miss this show.
> 
> Shame I can’t add anything substantial to Sophia, at least not until we know what happens next. *sigh*
> 
> The following was whipped up inspired by ever entertaining tweets of @SonOfHorace and @Horaces3rd.
> 
>  

There was a storm; it seemed at sea there always either was one, or they were waiting for it to come. This time, it caught them at the worst time, just before the sunrise, when everyone dreamt of warmth long seeped away by the night. James was curt and fast, shouting orders and getting every capable hand on deck to manage the waves and battle their deaths.

Just one day longer. Just until he realizes his plans.

It was over like a bad dream, leaving them drained and drenched, shivering with cold and pent up energy of the fight, bodies twisted with strain.

Napoleon purred as he pressed to his boots, asking for a pat. James hid a smile and looked around to make sure no one saw him scratch the beast's throat. Soon, Lorna will find another dead rat as a token of affection. He uncorked the bottle he brought with, sipped slowly, brandy mixing with stew they had for dinner.

The battle left him unbalanced, more than he usually was. Something kept shifting around him, thoughts coiling in his head muddled with more than just intoxication. The dead screamed at night, but now waves were louder than the ravens... At least until the dark was still a few hours away.

At the helm, Bill fiddled with some chains, the links clinking in a staccato rhythm as they fallen to the planks. The sound was carrying well on salty air, as if James was standing right behind, as if the metal was rattled just beside his ear.

Wound around a neck, tying dark limbs to a wall, barring passage leading to life…

The dead screamed at him, but he waved over their nagging, murmuring spells and curses in all languages that came to mind.

He swallowed another gulp of brandy, blinking to clear his eyes of tears. One voice in the chorus of souls still haunted him. He wanted to rejoice end of torment, but his own conduct forbid it. There was no regrets for him. No blaming him for the madness that ate away at delicate tissue of Zilpha’s mind. The Delaney curse was their cross to bear, and her soul was too pure and delicate to fight the insanity that killed their father. If she would come with him, all those years ago, or even now he would lover her like no other; but her life would still be a chasm of pain and disgrace. She hid her true nature even from herself and it killed her, every day, piece by piece.

Love was no saviour from their madness.

He sighed, noting how sun laid close to the horizon. Should he turn in for the night, give his men respite from his violent presence? Maybe he ought open a channel for his beloved, to try and invoke her to talk to him again, to rid himself of the poison that entered him in the morning and nestled somewhere he couldn’t reach alone. He would close the door and sit on the floor by his bunk, tracing lines on dusty floor, catching splinters in his fingers and using the pain. Eyes closed he leaned his head back thinking about her.

In his mind Zilpha was young and fresh, her skin creamy expanse of velvety softness, marred only by lines he made, consuming moonlight so hungrily, that the reddish paint seemed pitch black…

The attraction was a devil in disguise.

Unbidden, the woman assaulted him again, memory vivid and pleasant like a tranquil dream.

The Crow cackled from its perch up on the railing.

“James?”

Another harpy here to take a chunk of his soul. He thought naught was left, but even the miniscule amount was apparently plenty for them to give away.

He grunted deeply in acknowledgement of her presence.

“Atticus wants to stop for provisions soon.”

Another grunt, biting back more vocal response of not giving a fuck. They had an arrangement and it was clear; all seamen saw same signs and interpreted them same ways, without the need to consult the captain more than necessary. The course was charted. If there would be a need for the ship to dock, she will. Not too long, not too often.

What was Lorna’s real goal in informing him of this moot thing?

“I think you should change the contents of your bottle.”

There it was. He raised the object in question to inspect brandy sloshing gently in dark amber of the glass.

“Whiskey is for business, rum is for fucking. I’ll stay faithful to this one.”

Even though he did remember a fuck he acquired with help of a good bottle of brandy, a while ago, a second, just a pocket of time behind him. The rainy afternoon in Bedlam, shared drink, then more at the tavern. Slim body slithering under a shift in enticing dance, agile like a serpent, smooth and soft and welcoming. Tempting him, making sins come to him in waves of want. First a savage beast, then a sophisticated man, and last time in all his honesty, as a drunkard enjoying servant of the same god.

If she truly was a bacchante he probably would not have head still attached to his neck, or his rotten heart would long be ripped from his chest. As it was, he felt a sharp pang of memory in the traitorous muscle, remembering fleeting conversation they shared on their way back to town.

She had a cabby waiting for her, and James entered dark and dusty interior after her trailing skirts, when his horse has been trusted to a confidant. The cabin rocked and shifted on uneven road, prattle of rain drumming over their heads, mixing with splash of puddles sloshed with wheels.

He thought of fucking her then and there, but the mood of the place they just left still hung heavy in the air.

“Some people say you’re a charlatan.”

James only grunted in response, smiling under his beard. He waited for inevitable following questions. Her lips twitched silently in mocking response, as if she saw him, even though her eyes were glued to the curtained window all the time.

“Ask me,” he rasped.

She turned to him then, a tilt of her head and inclination of raised eyebrows indicating her bemusement.

“They used to call me a witch,” she said instead.

“And are you?”

She shook her head, sad eyes shifting down to the tattoos peeking from behind his shirt.

“There are no witches anymore.”

Oh, how wrong she was if she really believed that.

“Also, another thing men are safer at. If someone really thinks you’re a sorcerer you will get terrified respect and tentative awe. I would get stone in the face and a dozen unsavory offers.”

“But you like fucking,” he reminded, caressing smooth silver of his pocket watch in an absentminded gesture.

She chuckled, turning back to the window, sliding her eves over his palms on her way.

He remembered smiling then, felt his lips twitch in a chuckle now too.

Was this a spell she put him under? Pretending not to believe him, but in reality braiding cords around him, building a net of lies and wants, dreams and memories, everything so pleasurable and fleeting he only now reflected on how consumed he was with it?

Like a fly, drowning in sweet nectar, finding itself slowly being digested by the very thing that it gorged on.

“What was that?”

Lorna was still standing beside him, frowning at something he said.

“Nothing.”

“You should stay in your cabin if you intend to spill poppycock all day again,” she warned with a sigh.

Maybe he really should listen to her. Time displaced around him. One second he was drenched in bloody sunset, rising bottle for a swig, then he found himself lowering it, brandy burning down his throat, in the dead of night.

The sea called to him, mass of dark waves rippling under the shimmering glow of the  moon, enticing with whispers of the dead. He remembered a day, not long past, when he felt like he was drowning, ripples of pleasure overwhelming his consciousness. Was this how dying would feel like? If life was a torment, was the big death a more intense version of what was perceived as the little one?

He wanted to think of Zilpha, he wanted to stay with the dead, but his mind betrayed him, again drawing out the unwelcome memory of the woman to the fore.

With an impatient scowl he drained the remainder of brandy in his bottle.

"Here."

Godders was standing behind him, shy smile slimy like a snail. Hand calloused and chafed from working with ropes and metal was stretched towards James. A fresh bottle. 

He accepted it with a nod and a grunt. They drank together, silently, trapped each in his own musings.

The man was loyal; that was his only redeeming quality in James's eyes. Dedication of this calibre was rare, even among lovers. And he never indulged him, never gave him more than a fleeting touch, a suggestion, an inclination of his head while resting on the bed…

“You told me once I am half a man.”

This wasn’t something James was interested in talking of. Wallowing in self-pity was barely endurable when he done it himself, for others to turn to him he has little patience.

“We are all half-something. If anyone would be whole-something it would be too much to bear. Too perfect, too intense. We are all a sum of our experiences, multiplied by our habits, and they are certainly never homogenous. So none of us is really just one thing.”

Godfrey gasped, and laughed bitterly into chill of the night.

“You can’t warp what you said then. I remember that night. It wasn’t meant in this solicitous spirit, and you’re not going to convince me now you meant it as anything else than an insult.” His lips shifted into a scowl, brows furrowed as if he was in pain. “It doesn’t matter much. I’m used to it anyway.”

“Why did you bring it up then?”

“I still don’t know why you brought me along.”

What could he say?

“It’s not a reward for your loyalty, but a recompense for your services. I have a use for you still.”

“You’ll never use me in a way I’d like you to,” Godfrey whispered. “Do you have anyone you indulge with? I know your sibling is out of the question, regardless of what anyone is saying.”

“You know,”James smiled coldly.

“Lorna talks.”

He knew as much.

“She is concerned with your welfare.”

“She has her intentions regarding me, I am aware.” One must have been blind not to see the puppy like devotion from her.

“Yet, you seem indifferent,” Godfrey inquired further like James was a man who would ever answer.

“I am indifferent.” The confirmation meant nothing. He would not explain himself to anyone, least of all Godders.

“But you enjoy her kindness.”

“I do not deserve it.”

“What else do you enjoy, that you don’t deserve?”

“Sleep.”

This time Godfrey’s laugh was more genuine, a carefree and honest note deepening his voice.

“You always were impossible to talk to.”

He left him alone on the deck, swaying slightly on his feet, still looking over the sea. Watching the moon, bright and pale, hanging high over them all, a beacon in the dead of the night. But as a sailor, James knew that there were other lights on the tapestry of the sky, ones which showed only when the sun and moon vanished. Velvety darkness had its secrets and James knew all of them.

He closed his eyes remembering how filtered shimmer caressed pale skin covered in blood black marks. How he smeared those lines, how he added crimson of fresh blood to the mix. He wondered how did the bruises look on slender neck he carelessly abused, how dark hickeys blossomed along them.

That first night he wanted a woman who wouldn’t ask him anything; not his name, not any favours, not the contents of his heart.

She made him come back twice for the nectar of her desire.

She was an enchantress indeed.

Tiredly he turned towards the entrance below deck. His schooner was big enough to grant some crew members separate bunks; he enjoyed his solitude in sparse captains quarters. Scaling dark corridor he made a ruckus, tipping slightly over his shoes, stepping on Napoleon once and chafing his shoulders on the walls. All doors on his way were locked, to his good fortune, otherwise he would visit someone with a bang of wood hitting wood and demand for another bottle or a chat. Or both. It happened before.

As it was he reached his cabin, dark like the rest of the world. There was a half emptied bottle on his bedside table, wedged safely between books and remnants of meals. He tore the cork out and gulped down a greedy mouthful.

Zilpha. He wanted to commune with her, but his day was stolen by the succubus that haunted him for days now.

He turned, ears picking up slight shuffling behind him. Rustle of clothes?

“Hmm. I see you… Lurking at the… My door. Make yourself known… Bring me another bottle.”

No one answered.

Weird, even for an apparition.

He sat down on his bunk, craning his neck to turn unseeing eyes to the uneven ceiling.

If he’d waste his time to learn the identity of the woman, what would happen then? Would he offer her a place on his ship? Would he include her in his ploy, if she proved to be useful? Or would he leave her back as she was, safe in London, fucking strangers and hiding her volatile nature under porcelain like exterior?

There are no witches, she said.

How could she deny that, when she silenced the screams in his head whenever they met? When he felt calm and balanced, floating together with her on warm waters of pleasure, equal in desire and their wish to fulfill it?

His breath came out in ragged pants, remembering, again and always, mind supplying every detail with startling accuracy.

Another swig of brandy spilled on his tongue, warm like her blood. She let him drink it, taste her in any way he wanted. He remembered, even now, how her cunt tasted under his mouth, how her juices smeared on his beard, keeping her fragrance with him even as he returned home, as he returned to his damned plot. He let his palm smooth down his stomach, in the same way she caressed him with her small hands, gripped his cock just as she did. He bit on his forearm, to get a shadow of pleasure he felt when he left his teeth clamp on the side of her neck, the skin between his jaws salty instead of sweet.

Would her skin retain it’s taste here, on the sea?

He worked his flesh, feeling sharp pain beneath his tongue, mouth overflowing with liquid. He would kiss her now, or she’d put her lips to his cock. His free hand grasped at flimsy frame of the bed, and he slid all the way down on his back, lost in the warmth of the night. She would sit on his hips, take him in in her heat, work the wetness around his cock, seeping down his thighs and buttocks. He almost could see her ride him, as pale and lithe as a ghost, wantonly bouncing her body to get the most from him. She would grab her breasts, pressing fingers in supple flesh until it creased in dents, or twist her nipples, straining for touch, perfect for licking and biting.

James moaned, spilling to the memory of delicate fragrance of irises overwhelming him when he pressed his face to silky tresses fanned on the sheets.

Even when she wasn’t there, she succeeded in calming his mind. The ravens watched him from corners of the room, curious about the prolonged silence of the dead.

He blinked, sober in a way he wasn’t for days now.

There are no witches.

“Begone! You continue to torment me you evil serpent but they will not listen to you! Their souls are mine! Nailed in, strangled in chains!” he shouted into the night.

It felt like he was the one chained; caught in the net of hair, and blood, and irises. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here my favourite exchange from the aforementioned Twitter accounts:
> 
> [James is the one who wanders into Godfrey’s bunk at night. Godfrey said, last night James carried on about slaying serpents and wig eating.]
> 
> [Someone did not remove my boots. I could not sleep, and there was only one cabin door unlocked. A mere accident of a drunken man]
> 
> :D  
> Oooooooh reeeeeeaaaaaallly?


End file.
